


Hope is the Thing With Feathers

by Vortaesthetic



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-12-26 08:15:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12054942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vortaesthetic/pseuds/Vortaesthetic
Summary: Weyoun 6 may have been cultivated in a gestation tube, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't have a family. AKA the one where everyone on DS9 has no choice but to love him.





	1. Sisko

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by tumblr prompt challenges. The title is nicked from one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems.

Benjamin Sisko was not quite sure what to make of the newest tenant on the station. In fact, he was quite conflicted. The whole situation was a mess, really.

He had just returned from a three-day leave of absence on Bajor, where he had been one of the guests of honor at a religious retreat. things had been remarkably perfect in those three days; peaceful, serene, quiet. Orderly. For three days he was able to put aside all of the chaos, all of the violence, all of the anger. For those three days he ceased to be Captain Sisko and became Benjamin Sisko only, a man. True, he was still The Emissary, but in his most private moments, he wished that he could be a little less noteworthy in the plays of gods. It was good for him, restful. he could come back to the war effort refocused, resharpened. More dangerous than before.

Which is what made the situation he came back to all the more puzzling.

Perhaps an hour after he arrived, viewing his missed messages at his appropriately well-polished desk, he received an urgent communique from Ops. Odo had left for Cardassian space sometime during his absence in order to meet with an informant and brought back a surprise:

A Vorta. More specifically, a Weyoun. 

Benjamin Sisko has never particularly cared for Weyouns. neither of the Weyouns he’d met– Four or Five– had been particularly savory characters. Slippery, oily, practiced liars. Born politicians, you know. You couldn’t trust a damn thing that came out of their mouth and you had to watch out for the inevitable backstabber lurking in the corridors. 

He was pretty good at reading people as a rule. If that had been all there was to Weyoun, he probably would be more ambivalent about him…but as it stood, he was never able to quite pin down if the Vorta was merely the shiny lure or if he was the anglerfish that wielded it. He was always at the side of someone else–Dukat during the occupation, Damar during the extended military campaign– that it made it hard to tell who had the reins, but it was clear that Weyoun exerted considerable control and that his influence was indeed powerful.

He could live the rest of his life without dealing with any more Weyouns. And now, there was another one to deal with, on his station, no less. But it wasn’t necessarily something he had to worry about quite yet though– he had been at death’s door upon arrival, dependent on life-support. The chances of his survival were middling, at best. He was expecting to be notified of the death any minute.

…a notification that never came.

Surprisingly, the Vorta had pulled through after a few weeks of intensive care, coming out of his coma. His first face to face meeting with the fin-eared former diplomat was an odd experience; standing at the bedside of this creature that had a face he hated, but that he himself had never met. Despite both Weyoun’s and Odo’s attempts to convince him of the veracity of the Vorta’s intent to defect, Sisko remained skeptical for some time.

In the month since he had joined them, however Sisko had to say that he’d never been happier to be proven wrong. Weyoun Six had indeed turned out to be a valuable asset to both the Federation and to the crew of Deep Space Nine. He’d supplied an exhaustive list of Dominion assets and strategic objectives, assisted Federation cryptographers with the development of code-breaking algorithms for the Dominion’s constantly-shifting data encryption protocols, and provided keen psychological insights on the thoughts and political strata at the top of the Dominion war machine. When the Dominion let him slip away, they had lost a very dangerous asset. Their loss was Sisko’s gain and he would press his advantage as aggressively as he could.

However, their new addition brought it’s own problems. It didn’t take him long to realize the flipside to Weyoun’s boundless work ethic. Engineered to serve diligently, he completed all of his tasks to meticulous and obsessive degree…meaning that he never stopped. He just kept going and going and going, regardless of his physical ability to do so. They’d learned that lesson the hard way when Odo had come across him in his quarters, passed out on the floor because he lacked the sense to stop and he was desperate to prove himself. 

He had to be compelled by a superior officer or by his god to put his work away and care for himself. It was jarring to realize that this was necessary– in some ways, he was almost childlike. Dependent. Incapable of living on his own outside the rigid structure of the Founders that told him what to do and when to do it. It showed by looking at the man; he had a lean and hungry frame, with a pallor and dark eyes that only made his wan smile seem that much sleepier.

His tendency toward illness and lack of survival instinct meant that Julian kept him on a short leash. Odo, Bashir and Sisko had to meet frequently to discuss the Vorta’s duties and revise them so they didn’t exceed his capabilities. What he and Julian had learned this morning from Odo was quite concerning and had spurred an immediate visit from the station’s commanding officer.

Sisko was stalking down the hall through the habitat ring toward the Vorta’s quarters, his steps sharp, quick. His stride alone conveyed how he felt. Was he concerned? Yes, but more than that, he was angry. At whom, he wasn’t quite sure. But this had the potential to turn out very badly and  _it was going to stop._

The door was locked when he reached it and the Vorta didn’t answer, but that was nothing, Sisko immediately overrode the security code and strode on in like a tempest, stalking up to the Vorta and ripping the padd out of his hands before he even registered that the man was there.

He took the other padds on the table too, for good measure. And all the padds in the drawers. Pencil and paper? He took that, too.

“Captain,” Weyoun asked, startled by this excessive show of force. “What’s the matter?”

“The matter is that some people on this station do not have the sense to stop themselves, so I have to do it for them,” Sisko chided, his words enunciated to convey the degree of his disapproval.

“I beg your pardon?”

Sisko let out an irritated huff. He had to calm this down.

“When I began assigning you duties to this station, I did so with the expectation that you would work as hard as anyone else here to earn your keep. You’ve done that. The problem is, you don’t stop. You don’t do  _anything_  else. At this rate, we will be burying you before the end of the month and I refuse to let that happen. So until further notice, you are off duty, you are not to be accessing any projects and you are not to leave this room.  _Is that clear_?”

The Vorta seemed speechless. He nodded his assent.

“Computer, lights out in five minutes,” Sisko said on his way through the door. “Sweet dreams.”

The Vorta could only stare at the door as it closed behind the captain, still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. He sat there replaying the whole conversation even as the room went dark.

* * *

Weyoun blearily woke up in the early afternoon the next day, apparently having slept through four preset alarms and missing breakfast and lunch. He’d slept some but it had been a struggle; intermittent nightmares had roused him periodically throughout the night at inconvenient intervals, meaning that he was not as well rested as he should have been for twelve hours of sleep. Once he fixed the disarray of his hair and cleaned up for the morning, he sat at his table and picked at his fingernails, wondering just what he was supposed to do with himself today.

Within half an hour, Odo had stopped by to collect him, bringing him to the situation room. There was a meeting there of some sort, he could see other station personnel entering the room with covered dishes. Some sort of banquet, perhaps? Odo had told him that they were both going and that was that. he would find out when they got there.

It turned out that the captain hosted dinner parties on a weekly basis where he would cook traditional meals from Earth and share them with his friends and colleagues. In the far corner of the room, Sisko himself was managing pans and burners, stirring and sauteing and chatting with the others in the room. Sisko spotted them in the doorway and Weyoun was borderline astonished to receive a smile from the man, considering that he had been convinced that Sisko hated his guts.

The table was laden with all sorts of dishes, cooked rice, stewed lentils, cooked sausages, and stewed greens. As he took his place beside Odo at the table, he found that he’d accidentally stumbled into something quite intimate; it was a table of friends sharing a meal and laughing with each other, enjoying each others’ company over drinks and music. As a dignitary he had been to dinner parties before, but those were stilted, insincere affairs–there were always agendas and hidden motives attached. This was nothing of the sort; it was warm and homey and genuine and it reminded him that to these people, the word “friend” was more than a figure of speech, they existed and their connections were meaningful.

It was a beautiful sight, a beautiful experience, but it had a cutting edge to it because it made him realize just how much was missing in him. He couldn’t imagine that there was a single soul in the cosmos that would dare to call him friend–

At least that’s where the train of thought ended as Sisko picked up his plate and spooned a heaping helping of jambalaya onto it, urging him to dig in. The bubble that had separated him and the others seemed to pop then, as Jake began chatting him up about his latest story and the plates were passed around. He laughed, not because it was situationally appropriate or to belittle, but he laughed because Jake’s conversation was entertaining and lighthearted. To not have ulterior motives ascribed to his every facial expression was something new.

He watched as Nog blew bubbles into his root beer, as Rom tried to start a toast but fumbled the words, coming out with something heartfelt and twice as good instead. He watched as Julian and Miles traded sarcastic quips at each other across the table and Odo and Nerys quietly leaned into each other.

This? This was nice.

 _I’ve been ruined forever,_  he thought to himself.  _Ruined forever, and I’ve never been happier._

At the end of the meal, after the dishes had been cleared away and the table had been cleaned, everyone bid their goodbyes for the evening and resumed their regularly scheduled lives. Just as Weyoun bid Odo good evening, he was startled to find Sisko waiting for him in the hallway, padd in hand.

“There’s some hope for you yet Weyoun,” Sisko said with a small smile as he handed the Vorta his confiscated padd. “You just have to know what you’re missing. I trust that you’ll be more careful from now on?”

“I will certainly try, Captain.”

As the Vorta booted his padd back up, he felt the burdens he carried ease back a little. Life was not perfect and would not be for a while, but this was certainly a start. And he would endeavor not to worry the others so much again.


	2. Rom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Weyoun 6 lives and attempts to make amends with Rom and his family for his predecessor's actions

Someone was watching him. Rom could feel it. His ears were tingling with anticipation; danger was near.

He didn’t turn around. He clutched the self-sealing stem bolts tighter in his hands, ready to throw them at his would be attacker at a moment’s notice. It was 2:00 AM and he was alone on the lower floor of the deserted promenade. He had no hope of winning, but at least he could go down fighting–

“Hello–”

Rom shrieked as he whipped around, accidentally launching the stem bolts all over the place. His visitor blocked his face with his hands as they bounced off of his forehead and pinged into his hair.

Well, at least it wasn’t a Jem'Hadar.

It was just Weyoun. Which, come to think of it was just as dangerous, considering what had happened last time they met.

“Peace, Rom. I mean you no harm,” the Vorta said, peeking warily out from between his hands, checking to see if the Ferengi engineer had anything else to lob at him. “I merely wish to speak with you.”

Rom backed away toward the doorway, slowly as if confronting a snake. “Uh…no offense but last time we talked you told me you were going to execute me.”

“I know that. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I did that.”

“Sorry? I was in a holding cell for a week!”

“To be detained that long without trial or defense was inhumane, yes. I truly do regret it. All of it,” Weyoun said, his hands out in supplication, the cast of his face desperate to show how earnest he was. “What I am at a loss for is how to make amends for it. If I am to be living on the station, I would rest easier knowing that I have found a way to make it up to you for my shameful behavior.”

Rom looked at him in confusion. He picked at his ears, not sure if he was simply hearing the Vorta wrong. No, wait. He cleaned his ears this morning, that wasn’t it. Maybe this was really happening. Maybe he really did have an enemy defector trying to apologize to him. At two in the morning.

“How should I go about doing that? I am afraid I currently have little to offer in terms of material possessions or currency, but if you would prefer your restitution paid in latinum, I will work to do that,” Weyoun said, picking at the cuffs of his sleeves. “Resolving this…it’s very important to me.”

Rom considered his offer in silence. Maybe this could be a lucrative deal if he played his cards right.

…or maybe not. Latinum was always nice to have– but it was unlikely that he would get much. It’s not exactly like he was rolling around in latinum himself. It was obvious that the Vorta didn’t own anything to even barter with; expecting money out of him was a long shot. But he seemed honest about his desire to apologize. Maybe he could get his money’s worth in a different way.

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why is it so important to you to say sorry? You want forgiveness? That’s my price,” Rom said.

Weyoun was silent for a minute, taking a seat on the bench outside the shuttered shop door. “I’m not him. Not anymore. I mean no one any harm. I want to show you that. I want to show everyone that. The things that he did…I’m not looking to have them hang over me for the rest of my life.”

Rom could appreciate that. He’d messed up some in his life too.

“Oh,” he said simply. Then his face split with a grin that he tried to suppress. “Is it too late to ask for the latinum?”

Weyoun smiled.


	3. Julian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Imagine julian mothering weyoun 6 because of the stress-induced health problems

Weyoun was beginning to grow tired of waking up to the slate grey vista that was Sickbay’s ceiling.

He had been in the Senior Staff meeting in the Situation Room having a heated debate with Sisko and Martok. The Klingon raiding parties had been taking higher casualties in the past couple of weeks and the General was anxious to repay the favor to their enemies in bloody spades. 

This was distressing to Weyoun. Yes, he’d defected from the Dominion seeking to help the Federation forces in their efforts to end the war as expediently as possible, but he agonized that loyal soldiers would have to die to make that happen. He certainly wasn’t celebrating their deaths and he took umbrage to Martok’s braggadocio and comments likening Jem’Hadar to cannon fodder. He was no fool, he knew that death was a necessary part of this solution, but being an engineered servant of the Founders himself, the attitude was insulting on many levels. 

Needless to say, Martok and Weyoun began sharing terse words and Sisko had been trying to moderate the mess. The situation was just shy of boiling over when everything suddenly went blank.

He didn’t have much of an imagination, but that he could picture; an angry Vorta crumpling up like a ball of paper in a fit of pique and falling to the floor. Unfortunately, it was not a particularly uncommon event these days.

“Weyoun, we have got to stop meeting like this,” Julian tutted, viewing the data from his medical scans. “I would much prefer it if you walked in here if you wanted to visit.”

“Oh, Doctor Bashir. Where’s the fun in that? Don’t you like the drama?”

“Not like this. Weyoun,” Julian sighed. “This is the third time in two weeks that you’ve passed out. Your body is telling you something is wrong. And I’m inclined to agree. The body doesn’t lie.”

“Well, I am a  _Vorta_ , Doctor Bashir. If a body itself were to even be capable of lying, it would probably be ours,” Weyoun chuckled nervously.

“Weyoun… you are severely dehydrated. Your stress hormones are way out of range. Have you even been taking your medication?”

“I forget sometimes. So much to do, Julian. you know how that is.”

“Yes,” Julian said, a slight grin on his face. “I know how it is, especially since you’re still officially on house arrest. Do I need to show up every day to make you take it?”

The Vorta looked away from him and shook his head like an ashamed little boy. “That won’t be necessary, Doctor.”  

“Let me ask it another way then,” Julian said, pulling a chair up to the Vorta and sitting right in front of him so he had no choice but to look at him. “Is there a reason why you won’t take your medication? Your condition is serious, Weyoun. You are under a lot of stress and your body is not able to handle it on it’s own. These fainting spells are your warning signs. If you don’t start taking better care of yourself, you’re going to go down and I won’t be able to bring you back. That means eating. Regularly. Sleeping regularly, too. And taking your steroids.”

The Vorta sat quietly and listened to the doctor’s lecture. It was overdue, and even he could admit that.

“…It’s not that, Julian. Consider…where I come from, we do not have the concept of personal medical care. That’s the thing about clone armies, you don’t have to invest much in medical upkeep– chronic conditions like this one usually didn’t receive any care at all and usually… _pre-empted_  the activation of a replacement clone. So the concept of being in treatment for a  _long-term issue_ such as this, it’s all very new to me. I appreciate your patience. And your diligence, Doctor. It’s… very heartening.”

Julian shook his head, clapping the Vorta on the shoulder and stood to put away the padd. Times like this, where the Vorta spoke about the conditions on the other side of the red line served as a sobering reminder of the limited, deprived livelihoods of the Dominion’s servant races. Commoditized, depersonalized, disposable. Weyoun Six, while outwardly well-adjusted, still struggled with the burdens of burgeoning personhood and independence. It was a sobering thought.

“I think you need to take a raincheck on fistfighting Martok. Take your pill, get lunch, go to bed early. I’ll see you in the morning. Doctor’s orders.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”


	4. Nog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: In this 6 lives AU, imagine him being there to comfort Nog at AR-558.

The sound of explosions and phaser fire outside provided a grim soundtrack to the proceedings inside the cave. Julian was in surgical garb, preparing for an emergency amputation. Weyoun, the only other noncombatant available, was called in to assist the doctor. He had been brought along to assist with decryption, but with the engineering shortfall and ongoing hostilities, whatever input he was able to provide was limited to his knowledge of Jem’Hadar battle tactics and formations. When the fighting began in earnest, he was whisked away to assist the support crew in safer environs.

In his red scrub cap and surgical gown, only Bashir’s eyes could be seen, and he was all stainless steel and focus. Having been created for the express purpose of servility, Weyoun could relate intimately to that. He too wore the red cap and gown, passing the surgical equipment at the good Doctor’s request.

“Cautery tool,” Bashir asked, his hand going out to Weyoun without looking. Weyoun handed him the device promptly, even if he fumbled a little in disguising the slight shake of his hands. He was not used to being so close to the action, and it showed. “Steady your hands, Weyoun. Whatever is going on outside, we have to be calm in here.”

“Quite right,” Weyoun agreed, chastened.

“We’ll be done soon. He’ll still need to go to a hospital once we get out of here–this is little more than backwoods surgery, I’m afraid– but he’ll make it. Nog’s a tough kid. He’ll do marvelously.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Bashir continues to babble as he draws the tissues together with sutures. Weyoun only hears half of what he says.

* * *

Julian had gone outside to tend to the wounded, leaving Weyoun in the cave to stay behind with Nog. The intermittent explosions of the “houdini” antipersonnel mines can be heard at varying distances. The fighting has ended for the moment, but with the way the hardened soldiers outside scrambled to prepare supplies and weaponry for the next battle, he knew that it wouldn’t be for long.

Nog was slowly waking up from the anesthetic. Weyoun was there to tend to him, checking his surgical wounds. His vitals were good, the tricorder seemed to indicate perfect stability, and Nog’s pain was under control. He should have been happy about that and under most other circumstances would have been utterly overjoyed by it, but there was a small, ugly, selfish part of him that wished that Nog needed something from him so he could get his thoughts off of whatever was happening outside. That was an unworthy thought, which shamed him even more.

“It doesn’t hurt. You’d think that it would, but it doesn’t,” Nog says with a smile. The gravity of what has happened hasn’t hit yet.

“That’s good,” Weyoun agrees, albeit a little distractedly.

“I’ve never been on the front lines before. It’s not what I thought it was going to be.”

“No, it isn’t. I’ve never been on this side of it either. My predescessors, they’ve been on starships or at remote bases when the fighting occurs…it’s easy to think of things clinically that way, when you never have to see it in action. In truth, they are anything but. It’s quite…sobering.”

“When I was in the Academy, we studied all of the great battles. Wolf 359. Caleb IV. Axanar. The Four Years War…Even what I’ve experienced in the war…nothing is like this. I thought I was ready,” Nog lamented, remembering his lost limb, almost feeling it there. “I wasn’t.”

Weyoun shook his head. “I don’t think there was any way to be ready for this Nog. You did your best. You did well. Maybe everything didn’t turn out perfectly like you’d hoped, but you are still here. I may be a compulsive liar, but I can see an honest victory in that. One to be proud of.”

They heard a roar outside then, a battle-cry from their comrades signalling that another attack was imminent. Weyoun tried listening for shortwave communications, but it would seem that the Dominion forces were under radio silence. Exactly what had been drilled into him in Field Supervisor’s training may years (lives) ago. He could be working on decryption, but the wave frequency the array was using was inaccessible to their current equipment. He felt so useless.

The unmistakable sound of phaser fire and close-quarters combat filtered in to them from the supply-cache cave they were hiding in. Nog shivered, seeing the brilliant flash of light that claimed his leg behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes. “I’m scared,” Nog whispered. He couldn’t help it.

Weyoun can’t fault him for it. He is a very young ensign. A thought occurs to him then, an interesting tidbit that might be worthy of sharing.

“Did you know that the Jem’Hadar tell stories about this place? Eighteen columns of Jem’Hadar have met their end here. The Federation Soldiers of Chin’toka have become famous for being fierce and unyielding. The Jem’Hadar, they’re bred to be that way. But Humans? Federation races? They’re not. They  _became_  that way.”

“What does that mean?”

“What it means is that you have all risen to the challenge of fighting them. It means that they no longer see you as small and weak. It means that in their own way, the Jem’Hadar are scared of you too.”

Nog seemed skeptical about that. “I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment.”

“It’s a mixed bag to be sure…but your friends  _are_  amazingly fierce. I’ve learned that first hand. Sisko’s here, and he’s Fury Incarnate, so there is no way that we are losing, not this day. Just give them your faith. We will see another day Nog, I promise.”

The war wages on their doorstep and both of them pray.


	5. Ezri

Weyoun bolted out of his cot so hard, he nearly went tumbling headfirst onto the floor.

His skin was damp with sweat and hair stuck to the nape of his neck as his heart hammered away against his ribs.

He had been dreaming in his sleep again, twisted, confusing, awful tangles of memory and imagination that preyed on his fears like a pack of wild dogs. Weyoun struggled to remember the details now, but he could recall running as fast and as long as he could and still not going anywhere. He heard the harsh barking of the Jem'Hadar on his heels as he tried to flee down the never-ending hallway. Odo was nowhere to be found and he wasn’t going to make it–!

He tried to do the breathing trick Dax had taught him. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Purse your lips, she would say. His breathing did slow, but the trembling hadn’t yet ceased. He pulled the blanket off of the cot and wrapped it around him to try and stave off the worst of the trembling.

He needed to find someone. The anxiety was the worst part of it all, and he usually needed to talk about it to properly sort everything out. Usually, he went to Odo whenever this happened, but Odo was out tonight having a private evening with Nerys. He would not disturb him if he could help it. It was shameful that he had to run to Odo as often as he has about this, anyway. He felt like an impotent child.

He pulled the blanket tight around his shoulders and made his way to the turbolift, intending to go to Ops. He ran into Counselor Dax as she stepped out of the turbolift, her shift having apparently ended.

“Oh, sorry,” She squeaked, startled to see Weyoun standing there when the doors slid open. “Hey, haven’t seen you in a while. How’s it going?”

“I have my days, Counselor.”

He must seem an odd sight, a grown man waiting for the turbolift swaddled in a cotton blanket. He would be embarrassed if he weren’t so frightened. “Say, Counselor? Do you have a minute to spare?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Would you care to get some tea with me? I…I need to be with someone right now. Just for a few minutes. I promise that I won’t bother you too much. ”

He was so tired, so worn raw by the constant fretting, that it seemed to be imprinted into his skin. He was sure he had the word ‘defect’ etched into his skin somewhere for all to see, much as his serial was imprinted into his collarbone. This was nonsense. Paranoia. This shouldn’t be–

“Sure,” she says with a gentle smile. “I’ve got time. Let’s get some, my quarters. My treat.”

Oh. That was…painless.

“That sounds lovely, thank you.” He managed to find it in him to reply with a veneer of poise and grace, despite the chaos in his head. If he were any other Weyoun, he would have been prouder about that.

They entered her quarters, the Vorta taking a seat on the couch, his fingers nervously playing with the petals of the replicated sunflowers in the coffee table centerpiece. His hands itched to hold something, to do something, to be busy. Ezri replicated two cups of jasmine tea that she brought to the table, the steam rolling off of the cups piping hot and fragrant. Weyoun wrapped his hands around the thin china cup to bask in its heat as he breathed in the steam.

He looked up, noticing Ezri’s gaze on him, a curious expression on her face. He was waiting for the inevitable question, the  _how-are-you-doing’s_  and the  _you-need-to-take-better-care-of-yourself’s_  that seemed to be rote speak every time she saw him. Instead, she said neither.

“What was it tonight?”

Weyoun stared blearily at the cup, letting the floral steam wash over his face. It took a minute to process that she’d moved beyond him, skipping well past the pleasantries to cut right to the chase. She knew why he was here.

“I was running, mostly. I’m not a very fast runner. It’s always running…but going nowhere. There were dogs. Or  _Hadar_. Both. I… I don’t know.”

Ezri reached over to pull one of Weyoun’s hands away from the cup, lacing her fingers with his. He was still shaking, his stomach trying to crawl up his throat. She gently placed her hand on his cheek and turned his face to hers.

“Hey. Breathe, just like I showed you. We’ll do it together. In through your nose…out through your mouth. That’s it. Let it out. Relax. You’re doing wonderfully.”

She was so patient with him. They all were, really. As hard as he tried to be helpful, he knew he was a burden all his own. Odo and Dax were so good to him, even when they had no reason to be. And he was at a loss as to how to repay it.

Ezri, noticing his breathing had picked back up again, continued to talk to him in low, gentle tones. “Do you want to talk about it? Can you talk about it?”

He shook his head no. He didn’t know how to say what he felt that he needed to say. he wasn’t sure if anyone really wanted to hear it.

“Then we don’t have to say anything,” she said, putting an arm over his shoulder. He melted at the contact, throwing himself into her, burying his face into the crook of her neck. He shook like a leaf and she held him tighter, a hand lightly tracing up and down his back to soothe him. He savored this, craved this closeness, this compassion. They stayed like that for a while until his breath evened out and began to grow slow and drowsy.

“Weyoun,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

“Mmmh,” he mumbled sleepily, nuzzling into her. Even in sleep, he was unwilling to move far from her warmth, so deprived was he of touch.

She lowered him slowly to the couch cushions as she slid out from his embrace, laying his head on one of the throw pillows and straightening his blanket to cover his body. She took an extra pillow and tucked it between his arms, giving him something to cling to in his sleep– he curled around it immediately, pressing it tight to his chest, resting his cheek on it. He wasn’t smiling in his sleep–he was actually making a little frowny face that was kind of cute– but he was sleeping and not flailing at the terrors of the dark, so she marked it down as a success anyway.

She retired to her own bedroom for the night, leaving him to his rest. She would call Odo to come collect him later.


End file.
